The Root of All Evil Is Love
by Crystia
Summary: Tom Riddle is certain that Harry Potter loved him before the potion's fiasco.
1. Chapter 1

**It's the classic LovePotion!trope. I mean, everybody's gotta try at least one...right? :D **

**...Well, actually, it's what starts the plot, but...I hope it turns out a bit deeper than that. Slytherin!Harry, Time Travel.**

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><p>Tom Riddle pointedly kept his gaze directed towards the front of the classroom, listening to Professor Slughorn drone on about<em> love potions<em>, of all things. He held almost unnaturally still, a sharp contrast to the students fidgeting around him, giggling about crushes or shifting uncomfortably with blushes tinting their cheeks. A Slytherin girl behind him whispered that her mother had invented a variation of the potion that created false, amorous memories for the target.

Actually, it was a somewhat intriguing invention, compared to other dalliances of which Tom's classmates spoke. Taking into account theories of obliviation and legilimancy, Tom thought the description doable but challenging, especially given that few wizards ever fully mastered the ability to manipulate memories. And if editing them proved difficult, creating them was positively onerous.

How frivolous, to spend all that time and knowledge developing a love potion. If Tom had his way, he would put such talented witches and wizards to much better use.

Thankfully, his lab partner was not one of the fidgeting, giggling morons. As the lecture continued, however, Tom grew increasingly wary of the looks the boy kept sending his way. The boy acted nervously around him normally, but surely this was too much?

He'd puzzled over it for weeks; the boy had enrolled in Hogwarts out of the blue, and had taken an illogical and immediate dislike to Tom. His face burned red with anger when spoken to, he avoided Tom whenever in the same room, and the boy always watched him with suspicion. Tom treaded carefully around him, but Potter still snapped at him regularly and tensed whenever he appeared-

Tom's eyes widened, the grating mystery of Harry Potter's odd behavior finally solved, a sudden moment of clarity after weeks of speculation.

A smirk played across his lips, his new discovery amusing him so much that he didn't even care if Potter saw it.

The blushing, the nervousness, the spying, and now these frequent but covert glances in a lecture about _love _potions. The boy wasn't suspicious of him; of course not, he maintained his facade too perfectly. No one ever saw beyond his Head Boy badge, his handsome features, and his suave manners.

The answer was simple: the boy was _bent_. And he fancied Tom Riddle.

Yes, Tom mused, a schoolboy crush made much more sense than Harry Potter being privy to unknown knowledge, a sixth sense that warned him of Tom's false persona. The boy desired him, and Tom could use this to his advantage, although he questioned how best to do so. He knew little about the other boy for certain, although he suspected he must be the illegitimate child of the Potter family. The boy had suddenly appeared a few weeks into the year—their N.E.W.T.'s year, no less—and spoke little about where he came from.

Tom suspected he was indeed a part of the old House of Potter, because being in Slytherin, he must be at least half-blood, if not pureblood. And he suspected illegitimate because Potter's eyes had positively _flashed_ when Tom had asked him about his parents, back during the early days when he'd been trying to get a handle on him.

Small talk was drab, but it usually did wonders for lessening suspicion and earning trust. Now he realized the reason for Potter's apparent immunity; he'd been approaching the situation all wrong, like he'd been facing a rival instead of a boy with a crush.

Come to think of it, he did think he'd overheard Potter tell Orion that his middle name had been for his father. He must have lied, or else he'd taken the Potter name from his mother, because as far as Tom knew, the House of Potter had no "James". He must be ashamed of his mudblood sire. Half-blood, then.

"Well then, off to work with you," Slughorn announced, and the class eagerly started in on the practical portion of the class, chattering about who they'd test the love potion on..._hypothetically, no, of course we're not _serious_, Professor. _

Their textbook included several varieties of love potions, and discretely glancing across the table, Tom saw Potter choose one of Laverne de Montmorency's variations. It was unique in that it did not require consumption, instead activating when applied directly to the skin. Since the substance could not be digested, its effects were much weaker, creating only a mild obsession while the victim retained much of their personality.

Usually not chosen because the victim could not always be coaxed into..._anything_ and everything the maker wanted, it did, however, last considerably longer than the standard 24-hour dose. It had been known to last over a week, although it depended largely on the efficiency of the brew, the body mass of the recipient, and the attractiveness of the maker.

With a thoughtful frown, Tom turned to the same page, preparing his cauldron for an identical potion with practiced ease.

The class continued uneventfully, although he did pause to tell Potter that he'd turned his burner on too high. The boy tensed so badly at his voice that he knocked several ingredients to the floor. Tom Riddle narrowed his eyes at the boy's shyness, wondering if he'd been wrong about Potter's usefulness, since not much would get done if Potter couldn't function around him. Much of what Tom had in mind in regards to the boy's serviceability required discretion.

The rest of the class passed in silence, with Tom too busy plotting and Potter too shy. The boy finished the hour with a passable concoction, while his own was predictably flawless. Slughorn gushed praises on how he'd never seen a stronger sample of Mollis Caritate.

Tom took the praises with a humble smile and soft thanks, whereas Potter scowled outside of Slughorn's line of vision, probably thinking enviously about how he could never dream to match or claim someone so perfect and brilliant. Tom had certainly heard girls whispering such things on several occasions. It had the entertaining value of being true.

Slughorn moved on, but Potter's foul mood remained. After vialing a sample of his potion, he brushed past Tom just a little bit too quickly, stumbling as a result. Reaching out to catch him, he mentally cursed when the boy wrenched out of his grip, careening into Tom's own cauldron and knocking over its entire contents.

Luckily Slughorn had already seen his exemplary work, and so he would likely receive full credit for the class, but he watched in mild horror as the contents spilled all over Potter. The boy's eyes widened in shock, and then his features went lax.

"Oh dear, oh dear, you really should be more careful, Mr. Potter," Slughorn fretted, rushing back over while the rest of the students gawked. "What a shame, it was as brilliant a creation as always, Tom. I'll still give you full credit, of course..."

Potter didn't so much as glance at the professor, his eyes completely glued on Tom, his lips parted in a slight gape. Tom watched him warily, before his eyes flickered over to the professor and back.

"You have nice eyes," Potter said suddenly, still gazing at him intently. "Why would you ever let them go red?"

Tom blinked at the unfathomable question, which received a few giggles and whispers at Potter's abruptly obvious predicament, accompanied by a softer murmur wondering what glamours he might have seen Tom use. They thought he'd look _mysterious_ with red eyes; he scoffed. He'd never magicked his eyes red, but that was beside the point, because this was _not_ acceptable-

"Oh dear," Slughorn said again worriedly, catching up with the situation and wringing his hands, before continuing reassuringly. "I suppose I'll have to make the antidote. It'll take a few hours..."

"I'm afraid, Professor," Tom spoke reluctantly and with a sense of dread. For once his own genius had not worked to his advantage. "That I replaced the betony with olibanum, to strengthen the solution. You see, I didn't think it would actually be _used_, sir, so I saw no harm in it, but-"

"It would react terribly with the asphodel in the antidote," Slughorn concluded in defeat, deflating. He frowned at Potter with consideration. "With those side-effects, it might be kinder to let the potion wear off on its own."

"I do apologize, Professor, I never thought-" Tom added hastily, inflicting his voice with proper regret. Internally he cursed Potter's stupidity and inability to control himself due to his imbecilic, lustful, petty desires.

"No, no, Tom, it was a brilliant alteration, I just don't think the headmaster would appreciate it if I tried out new antidotes on a student when the love potion itself is relatively harmless..."

"I don't mind, as long as I can stay with Tom," Potter spoke up suddenly.

Tom resisted the urge to scowl, because he did not want to put up with the boy for an entire week. He wouldn't be able to slip away to the Chamber, explore the school, or practice his dark magic if the boy constantly clung to him. Tom had wanted to study more for the creation of his horcrux, as well; he believed he could create it by the end of the year, using the death of the mudblood that he'd killed with the basilisk, or perhaps the murder of his father and grandparents. He still deliberated which had more meaning; his first kill, or the death of his good-for-nothing muggle relatives. Perhaps the girl would be better, since he thought his father should only wish to be used for such a noble cause as his immortality.

Yet there were witnesses, and he had an image to maintain. His classmates, or at least the Ravenclaws, expected him to treat Potter with patience and compassion. Slughorn expected the same.

"It's all right, Professor," Tom said soothingly. "I was the one who startled him, after all. I'll make sure he doesn't embarrass himself too terribly. This way he can even attend classes."

"Of course," Slughorn exclaimed happily. "I should have known you'd handle the situation so well. I suppose if it had to happen to anybody, Mr. Potter was lucky that he spilled your potion and not anyone else's. You'll take good care of him, and I can rest easy," Slughorn leaned in with a conspiratorial wink. "Knowing that you'd never take advantage of the poor boy. I'm sure it'll be a fantastic story to tell, after which we can all have a good laugh."

Slughorn shook his head at that, waddling back to the front of the room with a chuckle. The other students finished packing up their bags, running off to gossip about the excitement, and Tom clenched his teeth.

"Can I carry your bag for you, Tom?" Potter broke through his thoughts, and Tom turned to see green eyes looking up at him hopefully through the rims of those ridiculous glasses.

"I can manage, thank you, Potter," Tom said stiffly, the venom in his voice nearly undetectable. The boy certainly didn't notice. They finished packing their supplies, and Tom slung his bag over his shoulder with a bit too much force. Turning around and taking a few long strides, he didn't wait before heading out of the room, but Potter followed quickly on his heels.

Silence, and then-

"Can we have lunch together, Tom?"

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><p><strong>I ship these two so hard it's not even funny...but I have no confidence whatsoever writing the pairing myself. Any feedback you might have would be considered immensely helpful! ^.^;<br>**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hi! I updated in under a month. I feel so on top of things! :D :D :D  
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**Anyway, thanks for putting up with my slowness, and I hope the chapter is enjoyable! :)**

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><p>Potter was <em>annoying<em>. Tom supposed he should be grateful for small mercies, since the boy would likely return to normal soon, and he'd never clung to him before the potion. The clumsiness was much more tolerable, or it would have been, had it not gotten them into this mess in the first place.

"What's your favorite food, Tom?" Potter asked, despite having been refused answers for his last dozen questions.

Even with his golden boy status, Tom didn't need to maintain the patience of a _saint_, and he'd started ignoring the constant barrage. No one would think him unusually cruel, since they assumed Potter's new infatuation to be completely without basis. When the whole disaster ended, the boy wouldn't blame Tom for dismissing his questions; he would feel too embarrassed for asking them in the first place.

It grew worse as the day went on. "Do you want a chocolate frog, Tom?" Potter asked in Transfiguration. Professor Dumbledore watched them with twinkling eyes, and Tom wanted to gouge them out with his wand.

"Is there a spell that makes your hair so perfect? Or is it naturally beautiful?" the boy pondered on the way to dinner, showing no signs of tiring. Abraxas snickered, and Tom recalled a particularly painful spell which ripped out all of the hair on one's head, and thought that Malfoy would be exponentially less irritating while screaming in agony and sobbing over the loss of his immaculate blond tresses.

"What's your favorite Quidditch team?" Potter inquired innocently while Tom studied. He was reading about the Blood Boiling Curse, and he felt unusually tempted to practice it, in the middle of the common room or not. The witnesses could be obliviated...

"Can I kiss you, Tom?" Potter asked, in the middle of the library, in front of several underclassman Tom had been tutoring in Arithmancy. His quill snapped. The boy was utterly unaware that he'd been closer to receiving the kiss of death.

And that was the last straw. Tom decided he'd be best off alone, or at least alone with Potter. While the situation humiliated the boy more than him, Tom preferred every bit of his dignity intact, no matter how little sacrificed. He would _not_ become the standing joke.

On the way back to the common room, he pulled Potter aside into an empty classroom. The potion might make the boy obey him, and he cursed himself for not trying this earlier. He still had to be polite, since Potter would remember this later, however embarrassing the boy found it, but no one could blame him for not wanting to put up with a neverending inquisition.

"Look, Potter," Tom said lightly, with his temper carefully in check.

"Harry," Potter interrupted eagerly. His face flushed, and he looked adoringly up at Tom, a smile on his lips as if the very fact of Tom's existence made him absurdly happy.

Tom had never had anyone look at him like that; admiration, yes, greed, yes, hate, plenty of times. He thought it said something about the world, that this expression could only be created artificially.

"Harry," Tom continued unenthusiastically, but he had a larger goal in mind, and he knew better than to waste effort on a small hangup like ugly names and over-familiarity. Potter smiled impossibly wider at the gesture. "I understand you're asking about me because you...care about me," he said, trying to cover up his distaste. "But you must understand that it's because of a potion, and I would prefer it if you acted more...reserved."

"A potion?" Potter asked, confused. "But I don't just care about you, I _love_ you."

Tom held back a disgusted cringe. "Yes, Harry. You spilled a love potion on yourself, and now you think you're in love with me."

Potter shook his head vigorously. "No, I really do love you, you have to believe me-"

"I believe you," Tom cut him off, sensing the upcoming rant. He had to keep the conversation focused, a challenging task due to the drug, but surely not impossible. "If you love me, Harry, could I request that you...limit the questions you ask me, especially in public? I'm afraid they're rather...distracting."

Potter looked crushed. "I'm sorry," the boy said, a desperate edge to his voice. "I'm so sorry! I didn't even realize, but I must have been annoying, you must hate me now-"

"Of course not, Harry," Tom lied smoothly. "It's just something I'm asking you to consider for the future. You've done no harm."

"Right," Potter said, shoulders slouching. Then, hesitantly, he looked up. "Could I ask just one question? And this time you answer?"

Tom considered him. He supposed answering one question about Quidditch or favorites wouldn't hurt, and he could always lie.

"What's your question, then?"

Potter bit his lip, then took a deep breath. Tom wanted to snap at him to get on with it, that Quidditch and favorites were useless, and that such questions only proved his insincerity if those topics struck him as the most significant. It showed love's artificiality and weakness, that those things mattered so much. But he held his tongue, a thousand lies ready to spring forth, and then Potter's chosen question shattered the pattern.

"Why did you do it?" he asked, sounding strangely vulnerable in the empty classroom, his voice bouncing off the walls with echoing sincerity.

"What?" Tom asked, wondering if the potion hadn't adled the boy's brains.

"Why _will_ you do it?" Potter corrected his sentence, as incomprehensible and irritating as the first.

"I don't know what-"

"You're willing to kill," said Harry Potter, his voice soft and unreal and his eyes an unnatural green. Tom froze unwillingly under their scrutiny, stuck by the sudden thought that those eyes matched the color of the curse he'd used on his father.

"You have killed, you will kill...and all for what?" Potter continued, as if he didn't see Tom's growing shock. "Kid's parents will be dead or tossed in Azkaban, and your precious purebloods will die right along with the rest of us. Muggleborns are never going to die out because more are always being born, but purebloods will die out trying to kill them anyway. You'll tear up your soul, your sanity, and all for what?

"You're perfect like this, Tom. You're whole and sane. You could have changed the world without torturing and murdering everybody. So why did you _do_ it?" Potter's voice held no blame, just a sincere desire to know, his eyes still deep with false love. Enchanted and enchanting.

"You're mad," Tom said blankly, taking an unconscious step back. How did Potter know about his plans for horcruxes? He said Tom would tear up his soul...and the muggleborns, and the killing, how did Potter _know_? Perhaps one of those would have been a wild conjecture, fishing for information, but he'd provided too many little things which added together, too many to be a coincidence.

"Mad with love, maybe," came the soft reply, and Potter _smiled_, and Tom could not understand how the boy could be _smiling_.

"How much do you know?" Tom demanded, gathering his wits at last, asking the question and drawing his wand in the same moment.

His wand dug into Potter's throat before the boy had time to flinch, but he received no response beyond a startled blink. Potter just watched him with wide eyes which contained little to no surprise, completely devoid of fear. The love potion must dull his reactions.

He pressed the wand harder into Potter's throat. "How. Much. Do. You. _Know_?"

And Potter shrugged. Tom snarled in frustration, his golden boy facade forgotten in light of the fact that someone had seen through it and had guessed more than Dumbledore.

"Have you been spying on me? What do you want? _Tell the truth_," he commanded, loud and rattled. He fought to keep his composure.

"I want _you_, Tom," Potter said earnestly. Tom narrowed his eyes, about to curse him, torture him, anything until he _told the truth_-

But no. Tom wasn't thinking straight. He let out a breath when he realized; such an obvious thing, he should have seen it sooner. He'd need to be careful, of course, but the situation wasn't unsalvageable.

He'd ordered Potter to tell the truth, and he'd inflected his voice with power not unlike that of the Imperius Curse. It was unlikely that Potter could resist its strength, so when Tom had asked what the boy had wanted, he'd likely have _told the truth._

He had answered that he wanted Tom. Perhaps the potion had interfered with his response, but it still made sense that he had wanted Tom before the potion's incident as well. After all, just this morning, hadn't he deduced Potter's infatuation with him?

So Potter had spied on him, and had been remarkably efficient about it, too efficient...but the boy hadn't once approached him with blackmail, hadn't once gone to a teacher, and hadn't once confronted him about the questionable morality of his actions.

Potter _liked_ him, even without the potion, and therefore would protect his secrets, for however long the feeling lasted. He remained furious that someone had found out so much, but he wasn't blind to the potential value. He'd already seen Potter's talents in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and come to think of it, it wouldn't be surprising if it came from knowledge, or at least an affinity, with the the dark arts.

But this was even more useful. Potter had managed to gather a shocking amount of information without Tom noticing, and had only divulged the knowledge to Tom himself, under the additional influence of a love potion. Taking into account the boy's infatuation with him, Tom realized that he could now exploit his impressive investigative skills.

Cautiously, Tom stepped back and lowered his wand, although he didn't put it away.

"You won't tell?" Tom demanded, while an idea formed in the back of his mind.

Potter shook his head rapidly. "Of course not. I would never betray you, Tom."

"No," Tom said slowly. "You won't. Will you prove it for me, Harry?"

"Oh, I'll do anything," Potter said enthusiastically.

Tom knew better than to believe such promises, having heard too many lies from too many lips. He supposed he could almost forgive Potter for this, at least, but never the others. The potion forced the boy to tell such lies, so Potter didn't intend manipulation: the false love had made him stupid and blind. Then again, Tom wouldn't think Potter above manipulation without the potion, and he disliked stupid people almost as much as liars.

Yet circumstances forced him to acknowledge that Potter was not an idiot. He'd knocked over the potion and turned into a nervous fool because of a crush, but the information he'd gathered and the secrecy he'd maintained proved him to be of at least some worth.

Tom would be amiss to disregard such opportunities.

"Will you vow it?" he asked softly.

For the first time, Potter hesitated, and he kept his own face blank. He appeared to be fighting the potion's effects, and Tom could respect that, safe with the knowledge of his own ensured victory.

But as Potter continued to struggle, he wondered if he had a stronger will than he'd first assumed, and he began feeling the first whispers of worry. This was the weakest love potion, after all, no matter how well-brewed. Demanding absolute servitude would cause resistance, but if it was a small sacrifice, something that Potter had intended to do anyway-

"I shan't ask for much," Tom reassured him, keeping any accusation out of his tone, because Potter's guilt would work for him, but his defensiveness would not. "Only a vow to keep my secrets. Do I not deserve an insurance of my privacy? I apologize, it's just, the thought that someone investigated my past, without my permission... Of course I trust you, Harry, but can you imagine the scrutiny of the school if rumours spread, simply because you made one accidental slip?"

Potter's features softened at that, and Tom knew he'd succeeded.

"I don't need to imagine," Potter murmured, and Tom felt a vague, unwilling curiosity at that, but he forced it down. "You have no reason to trust me. I'll do the vow, if it makes you feel better."

"Thank you, Harry," Tom said, his voice filled with feigned gratitude.

He led Potter to the door, a hand on the small of his back, deceptively gentle. He smiled with his teeth, too wide and predatory, but Potter wouldn't see it while influenced by the potion.

"Your devotion is admirable," he whispered into his ear, and he watched Harry Potter shiver as his breath ghosted over his skin.

ooo

It was too late in the evening to perform the necessary ceremony when they arrived back to the dorms, but the following morning, Tom hexed Potter and Abraxas awake, demanding that they accompany him a few hours before breakfast. Abraxas followed stoically, confusion subtly present beneath his impassive gaze, but agreed readily when Tom requested him as their Bonder. But perhaps he only agreed so readily because he knew it wasn't truly a "request".

Tom held out his arm. Potter blinked at it uncertainly, and Tom realized the boy didn't recognize the ceremony. Still, the boy held out his arm anyway. They linked arms, and Abraxas whispered "nox", casting the three teenagers into darkness. The shadows made Potter's eyes look black, flickering green only when the torch light danced across them. The sun had risen, but Tom had led them to an abandoned corridor in the dungeons, no windows to distinguish the time of day. Abraxas placed his wand on top of their clasped hands.

Tom spoke.

"Will you, Harry Potter, keep my secrets, unless my life depends on your action?"

"I will," said Potter, watching with awe at the thin flame that wrapped around their arms. His grip tightened, but he didn't flinch.

"And if you discover any more of my secrets, inadvertently or not, will you share them with me and only me?"

"I will," said Potter.

A second line of flame met the first, intertwining to create a chain. Tom studied their clasped hands, and suddenly disliked this ceremony, in which they acted as each other's counterpart, as though they were _equal_. Potter should be bowing before him, not standing proudly and holding his hand tightly, looking into his eyes with confidence and false _love_.

"And if you disapprove of my intentions, will you agree not to use my secrets against me, even if you tell no one of the specifics?"

"I will," said Potter.

The third coil of flame wound down their arms, Abraxas's breath catching and his wand trembling ever-so-slightly, the three rings of fire combining and brightening so that only one long, fiery snake remained.

The three of them watched, fascinated, until the flames died. Potter kept holding onto his hand despite Tom tugging away, until finally he lost his patience and yanked himself out of the boy's grasp. He pulled out his wand in a fluid motion, and before Abraxas could register the attack, Tom spoke.

"_Obliviate_."

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><p>ooo<p>

**I always wonder if the chapters setting up the plot are too boring. I try to make them interesting but I don't know... Was Tom too patient? Was Harry too flippant? AHHHH!  
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	3. Chapter 3

**Chyapuhtahh Thrayyy**

**...I was trying to come up with something clever to say for the A/N, but instead I got distracted by how many ways I could say 'Chapter 3' in weird voices. T.T**

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><p>ooo<p>

Tom returned Abraxas to bed with no complications, the morning still too early for the others to have awoken. He had done well to choose such an unfashionable hour to perform the oath; no consequences would befall him, simply because the scion of Malfoy would have no idea that he should remember anything aside from meaningless dreams.

The day proceeded smoothly from there, Potter more in control of himself than the day prior. He did protest mildly at Malfoy's treatment, but he disliked the blond, although he wouldn't answer Tom's inquiries as to why. Combined with his infatuation his objections lacked enthusiasm. His gaze tended to linger on Tom just a little too long, and he brushed his arm just a little too often, but his behavior certainly improved upon yesterday's unending questions.

His restraint allowed Tom to study the boy himself rather than simply fend off advances.

Instead of growing bored, however, Tom found himself growing puzzled. He had originally written the boy off after seeing his average grades and illegitimate blood status, but now that the boy followed him around, he couldn't help but notice Potter's...oddities.

It was in the way he spoke, his words just a little bit strange, and his mannerisms just a little bit off. He'd make up peculiar words and then dismiss them, like Pigmy Puffs and Whiz-Bangs, and then he'd blink, mildly startled, when someone questioned him. He didn't know things he should, like the head of the Auror department or the recent werewolf legislation, and he knew absolutely none of the pureblood courtesies and customs.

Tom did wonder how Potter had managed to survive for so long without absorbing an ounce of pureblood culture, and his placement in Slytherin piqued his curiosity. He wondered how it had gone unnoticed in the house for so long; the boy had arrived over a month ago. He supposed the boy had kept to himself the past few weeks, rarely speaking to his classmates, and although he lacked wizard conventionality, he also couldn't deny that the boy was extremely polite, in a disgustingly plain, muggle sort of way.

He would have deemed Potter clueless, yet the mysteries didn't end there. Despite being a transfer student, he soon realized that the boy never, ever got lost in the school.

Tom knew, because he had tried to abandon the boy several times throughout the day, and the boy _always_ found him with astounding speed. It made no sense. It had taken Tom seven years to learn the school's secrets, it had taken him six to find the chamber, and yet _Potter_ navigated the halls and passageways with more ease than many of the teachers.

"Tom, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to ditch me," Potter announced reprovingly, this time in a little out-of-the-way window cubby, finding him again regardless of the notice-me-not charm.

Tom didn't understand _how_, and things that he didn't understand, he wanted to hex. His fingers twitched towards his wand. Reflexively, Potter's hand darted to his own, and then the boy blinked and shook his head as though dazed. Intrigued, Tom watched as his hand fell away.

"I don't think I could if I tried," Tom said lightly, covering up genuine aggravation.

The reflexive action towards his wand suggested practical dueling experience. Tom observed the idiot distrustfully, pondering the fact that he'd yet to see the clumsiness Potter had displayed when he knocked over his potion. He'd almost call him _graceful,_ not in the pureblood, aristocratic manner, but his DADA duels lacked any stumbling, and he easily dodged people as he chased after Tom.

He'd credited Potter's fumbling to his crush, at first, since the idiot had yanked himself out of his grasp, but that didn't make sense either. The love potion made the boy completely infatuated with him, and yet he'd seen no repeats of the first bout of clumsiness. Now Potter seemed to _want_ to touch him; he postulated that perhaps the love potion had lowered his inhibitions.

It was dinner time, and Tom had gone from trying to discretely lose the new student in the dungeons, to taking every secret passageway and indirect route he could think of to find a moment alone. This failure brought the count up to seven unsuccessful attempts for the day. He was not one to admit defeat, but he began to think—rather sourly—that strategically, he'd lost more time than he gained.

Potter plopped down right next to him, and Tom stiffened. When the boy leaned his head against his shoulder, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and he had to resist the urge to shove him off and curse him into oblivion. He disliked being touched, but Potter trapped him against the window, and shoving the boy off would lead to pathetic pleading and heartfelt apologies which he hated even more.

He wanted to study and think, but he'd ended up spending most of his time viciously planning this boy's demise, and it was only the second day of the infection. Yet he couldn't dispose of him, not when the boy so obviously attached himself to his side and so many people knew about his predicament.

No matter what he did, Potter seemed to foil him without effort or awareness. Gritting his teeth, he picked up his book again; he'd noticed that Potter held back his questions when he studied, probably still guilty after last night's encounter.

"_Cornivus Gaunt,_" he hissed the password, deliberately heedless of Potter's presence, opening the book as it registered the correct code.

The boy couldn't understand parseltongue, and had sworn to keep his secrets besides. He wanted to test if the boy would dismiss his whisper or recognize it as the noble language of Slytherin. Tom hoped that if so, the whisper would break through the love potion haze and frighten the boy off his shoulder. Tom inched away, but the boy just leaned closer so that their sides completely pressed together, a line of unwanted warmth. Unruly wisps of black hair tickled the side of his face.

"Is that one of your relatives?" Potter asked curiously, adjusting himself so that his head rested more comfortably on his shoulder. Tom froze, the pages he'd been flicking through fluttering to a halt.

"What?" he demanded.

"_Cornivus Gaunt,_" Potter repeated the name with the exact same intonation, and in parseltongue, no less. "It sounds familiar."

And there were so many things _wrong_ with that sentence. The parseltongue, the knowledge that he was related to the Gaunts—these coincidences had gone long past intriguing and alarming, they were inconceivable, too much—how, how, how—

"Tom?" Potter asked curiously, mildly alarmed, and Tom already had his wand at the boy's throat, just like last night.

They stared at each other, Potter confused and Tom breathing too fast, alone in a small abandoned window-cubby in an unused corridor of the seventh floor. The setting sun cast them in soft red, almost orange, shadows deadening their features and obscuring their eyes. Although Tom had enjoyed the location before the other student's arrival, now the space felt too small; even with him now pressed against the opposite wall, their legs tangled together and only a few centimeters separated his wand from Potter's throat.

"How do you know parseltongue?" Tom demanded, his voice hoarse. He hated this boy; this boy that kept making him lose his composure. "Are we related?"

"We're not related," Potter said, blinking in surprise. His hand twitched towards his wand again, but once again he aborted the motion. "And I know parseltongue because...well, because."

"Because _why_?" he asked sharply, frustrated already. He didn't sense that the boy was lying, but he didn't dismiss the idea of shared blood so readily. They did look alike, and even if he'd checked the records thoroughly, Potter had an inherited trait and recognized the name Gaunt.

Potter set his jaw. "I shouldn't tell you."

"Why?"

"I-" Potter stuttered, his face contorted in apparent emotional anguish, conflicted but stubborn. Tom realized that the boy's instincts must be conflicting strongly with the potion's influence.

Swallowing his disgust, he used his wand to tilt up Potter's chin and leaned forward. He ran his thumb over the boy's cheek, still holding his wand loosely with his other fingers, and pressed close enough so that his lips brushed Potter's ear. He hadn't truly seduced anyone before, thinking it repulsive to lower himself and touch someone so weak and lustful, but this once he decided that practicality won over his loathing. Intellectual manipulation was preferable, but this boy had too many secrets, and the love potion made this course of action the most effective.

"I-" Potter stammered again, flustered this time. "I- What? You-"

"Don't you want to tell me, Harry?" Tom whispered, his lips catching on the lobe of Potter's ear, his breath displacing messy ends of hair. His wand hand trailed down the boy's neck, a barely-there touch that ended with his thumb pressing gently against his windpipe.

It wasn't meant as a threat, but Potter violently flinched away at that. Losing his balance, the boy's eyes widened comically before dropping off the elevated stone and onto the floor, falling out of the fading sunlight in the window's hollow. His hair looked even more tousled that usual, and his eyes looked particularly black without the light.

A clumsy action, at last: he recognized the pattern now. He was clumsy when cringing away from Tom's touch.

"I can't, Tom, please don't ask," he said desperately, and scrambled to his feet. He staggered his first few steps, and then turned and darted away, vanishing around the corner within a few seconds, calling an abrupt halt to their interaction.

Tom watched where he disappeared, expression void of emotion, while internally he felt a range of conflicting thoughts. He noted frustration, most obviously, that he did not receive the answers he wanted. Relief also touched the edge of his thoughts, because he had not wanted to take the game farther, for he was clearly superior to Potter and debasing himself in such a hedonistic manner insulted his own intellect. He was perfectly capable of manipulating people with his mind, even without his superficial charm.

But he felt his irritation directed at another reason, as well. Because even though he had no desire to seduce Potter, the fact that he had tried to do so and had then been rejected, despite his target being under the influence of a love potion...He didn't understand.

He glared down at his book, finally alone after countless attempts of escape, and yet for the entire time he studied, the thought nagged at him that he was only alone because the parasite had _run away_.

ooo

Tom woke up early the next morning, having successfully avoided Potter since their last encounter. He slipped out a book, idly flipping through the pages, but not truly focusing on the words. What information could possibly be so important that Potter had fought the love potion to keep it from him?

How _dare_ Potter run away from him, when it was _he_ who should have cringed away in disgust? _He_ was the superior one. _He_ was the head boy, impossibly brilliant, and devastatingly handsome. _He_ was the one lowering himself.

_Or could it be_, a little traitorous voice whispered from the back of his mind. _That your seduction was so terrible that you couldn't even charm an infatuated fool?_

Potter wasn't particularly attractive. The green eyes were enthralling, perhaps, and his features not displeasing—but overall he was unremarkable, scrawny, and his hair absolutely appalling. He should be begging for Tom's attention.

Seething, he turned the page of his book with too much force, the paper crackling in protest. He reasoned that his failure only proved Potter's secrets all the more important, and that he should focus on discovering exactly how much the boy knew, along with the reasons behind his knowledge.

Rustling from the bed over caused him to raise his head. The light from the lake glowed a pleasant viridian, filtering through the windows and creating bewitching patterns across the room. Tom blinked when he met Potter's now-open eyes, suddenly aware of how the lighting emphasized their electrifyingly green, all the more notable without the boy's glasses distorting them.

"Oh, you're awake, Tom," Potter said, blearily rubbing his eyes. He fumbled sleepily for his hideous glasses; cheap wire and obscenely round, too large for his face.

"You'll wake the other's," he said coldly, irritated at the broken peace.

Except Potter misinterpreted the source of his displeasure, and Tom's former irritation paled in comparison to the downright fury he felt when the boy stumbled out of his bed and plopped into his own.

"What are you doing?" he hissed, his hands whitening as they gripped his book with undue force. Potter's apparent distress increased.

"I'm sorry," he blurted, and before Tom could move away, Potter pressed his lips briefly against his own, dry and soft and fleeting, and then pulled away just as quickly as he'd leaned in.

And once again, Tom found himself with his wand at Potter's throat, and a manic thought flitted through his mind that this was becoming _far_ too regular an occurrence.

"What was that?" he demanded. So many questions, and of course, Potter chose to readily answer _this_ one.

"I thought I'd hurt your feelings, when I pulled away last night," he blathered. "Well, maybe not feelings, because I know you don't care much about other people. But I thought I might've hurt your pride. Is pride a feeling? I didn't mean to reject you. I want to tell you things, even if you don't love me back, because I love you. I _can't_ tell you these things, though, for the same reason. I love you and I don't want to lose you to V-"

He cut off.

"Lose me to what?" Tom snapped, hating how the boy could say these things, _love love love_, so easily, so nauseatingly, but he listened anyway, searching for the truth hidden in the drunken ramblings.

But he could find hints in what Potter said only if the boy actually _said_ something.

"Um," said Potter, unhelpfully. "I'll bring you up breakfast, okay?"

He scrambled off the bed, ignoring Tom's hiss of _"Potter!"_ and darting for the door, snagging a robe and slipping it right over his sleeping clothes in his haste. He tripped on the threshold, one more clumsy action on a list with a grand total of three.

Tom glared at the door.

That made thrice that Potter had run away from him.

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